


The Final Duel... The Final Death

by God1643



Series: Micro-Stories [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, God Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 05:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God1643/pseuds/God1643
Summary: Harry is not what he seems.Voldemort has no idea what he is up against.And Harry, more importantly, is very angry.Good luck, Voldie.Not even that will save you now.





	The Final Duel... The Final Death

“How does it feel?” Bellowed the man across the flagstones, his eyes alight with madness. He stood square, facing off against a man, far taller than he and much thinner. His opponent sneered, his scarlet eyes flashing with barely checked rage, outstretching an arm.

“Come, Harry Potter.” Hissed the elder. “Come and die, for the last time.”

Harry, the youth, threw aside his weapon, his trusted wand, and shook free his long black hair. He threw back his robes, baring the battered hand-me-downs underneath.

He began to pace, never ceasing eye contact with his opponent, shoulders and chest puffed and hands clenching and releasing the stale air of war.

His eyes glowed now, illuminated in the darkly lit courtyard, the sun dipping low and blotted out by the west tower behind them. He prowled side to side, his feet bare and peeking out from the ragged cuffs of his old black slacks, his arms stretching and straining the now off-cream dress shirt.

He seemed to grow before their very eyes, not through any increase in size, but an increase in  _ presence _ , allowing the beast within to slip free of its leash.

“Very well, Lord Voldemort.” Harry responded, his hands curling, to that bizarre halfway point between fists and an open palm that only came with deep rage, the primal side of the human mind  _ yearning _ for the time we once had claws. “But you shall die with me.”

Harry began to glow, his magic seeping and diffusing into the air, crackling from his bared feet to blacken and char the stones around him.

Voldemort answered in kind, a red glow, a miasma, curling about his serpentine figure, stretching and coalescing into beckoning,  _ sibilant _ claws.

As Voldemort began to slash with his wand, bolts, jets, lances and ribbons of deadly intent leaping from the eager, tainted Elder at his beck, Harry began to scream.

These were not screams of pain, or of fear, but of a pure, dark,  _ primal _ lust for blood. To allow the beast within to take over completely, slip the bonds of higher consciousness and slip amongst where we belong.

“You are dead!” Harry bellowed, certain of his truth, as the jets, lances and bolts splashed against his skin. Some blackened, others removed entire chunks, one even caught a lucky edge and severed two fingers clean.

But Harry kept coming, his feet slapping against the flagstones, leaving blackened imprints that would be there for decades,  _ centuries _ to come.

When he met his opponent, his momentum carried the two forth, until Harry rolled atop his nemesis. He pulled the dazed Voldemort up by his lapels, a mere six inches between their gaze.

“Do you know what it’s like to hold back?” Harry snarled, shouting despite their closeness. Voldemort glared, silent, a deeply buried piece of his tattered soul feeling  _ just _ enough fear to stop his tongue.

“Do you know what it’s like for every opponent to be a mere trifle?!” Harry screamed, shaking Voldemort. Harry stood, dragging the serpentine man with him, and throwing him to the center of the courtyard.

“To be forced to play the weakling?” Harry bellowed. “To play the false victim?” Harry dragged the man up again, slamming him against a piece of the shattered south tower, now rubble in the yard.

“To have to treat the world around you like cardboard?” Harry lashed out with a fist, embedding his knuckles into the stone, a piece as big as a man  _ shearing _ off and  _ crashing _ to the earth.

“Well, I’m done holding back!” Harry declared,  _ hauling _ the man up, hoisting him above his head. “You hear me?” He snarled to the gathered crowd, looking more like a beast with each passing second.

“Done!” And with that word, Harry slammed the serpentine man into the earth, the albino beast  _ exploding _ into an absolute  _ shower _ of viscera, gore and blood.

None of Voldemort remained, only shed flesh recoiling off the stone, or off of horrified onlookers. As Voldemort’s soul left this mortal plane, hundreds of spirits, bound into his corrupted flesh in a desperate effort to prolong his time as a wraith, drifted upward in a column of black smoke and ash.

As the silence and the dust settled, Harry began to glow brighter, and brighter, until he could scarcely be looked at.

“Fix this.” He proclaimed, to the watchers.

“So that no child may live in fear. So that no woman is left scared, alone. So that no man is driven to these horrid deeds. So that none repeat the sins of my relatives, and none must suffer as my family suffered.” He spun slowly, meeting eyes with all there.

“For I shall be watching. And those doing so, shall taste my vengeance. Failure will not be tolerated. Your best is not enough. Fix it, or be annihilated.”

And with that, his glow grew to outshine the sun, and he vanished without sound.


End file.
